


there will never be another

by arcane_illusions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Broken Bones, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Oblivious Harry Potter, Pining Draco Malfoy, Quidditch, Red String of Fate, Soft Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:22:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27842926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcane_illusions/pseuds/arcane_illusions
Summary: In which Draco and Harry are soulmates and rivals, but war changes them both.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 8
Kudos: 195





	there will never be another

**Author's Note:**

> For my darling Ana, the Harry to my Draco.

Draco was born with a red string on his pinky finger. His mother told him it led to his soulmate. His father told him it made him weak. 

Draco never asked more than that.

* * *

Draco is one of the lucky ones who finds his soulmate on the first day of school. On the Hogwarts Express, he bumps into a boy called Harry Potter, whose eyes are greener than the emeralds on his mother’s wedding ring, and jet black hair. He’s short, scrawny, and a pathetic little boy and Draco easily towers over him. It makes it easier that he’s with a Weasley.

Draco’s eyes drop to the line of red string on the ground. It loops and knots a couple of times before it unmistakably coils around Potter’s left pinky. Potter notices it too, and his mouth opens and closes soundlessly.

The Weasley doesn’t seem to realize what’s going on — the freckled, poor blood traitor is stuffing his fat mouth with sweets and glaring at Draco — but Potter’s eyes harden, and he jerks the string experimentally. Draco stumbles a step or two forward. He sneers.

“What was that for?”

“For insulting my friend.” His mouth is set in a grim line. “Now get out.”

Draco has a barbed retort on his tongue, but he swallows it. He holds his head high as he marches out of the compartment.

But once he’s out of sight, he takes another look at his string, which snakes and curls under the door to the compartment he just exited. 

The Boy-Who-Lived is his soulmate, and he _hates_ it.

* * *

Draco’s feelings for the Potter boy sour when he finds out the boy has made the Gryffindor Quidditch team. _As a first year._ Potter had never played Quidditch before in his life, and yet he was natural at it. Draco had been playing since he was an infant, and he still hadn’t quite mastered the art of catching a Snitch. But one go, and Potter is doing it like a professional.

He complains to his parents, who then write to Dumbledore. Infuriatingly, the man writes back a very carefully-worded letter that appeases his parents but does not get Draco a spot on the Slytherin Quidditch team.

Instead, he receives a scathing letter from his father, reprimanding him for losing his composure and throwing a pointless hissy fit.

Seething, Draco attends the first Quidditch match — Slytherin against Gryffindor, ironically — to see Potter in action, to see if he’s really as good as he’s claimed to be.

Of course, he is. When he coughs up the Golden Snitch, green eyes wide as saucers, and the Gryffindors erupt into cheers, that’s when Draco’s hatred for the Potter boy is born.

He’s jealous, and he’ll admit it — but only because Potter is better than him at something.

* * *

Over the summer, Draco pushes himself to the limit. He practices in the sprawling lawn outside his family’s manor, and his father is proud. _You need to beat that Potter boy,_ he says, and Draco is determined to.

His father even goes as far as to buy the fastest, most expensive broomsticks for the team as an extra incentive for the team to let him in. And they do, and for the first time, Draco feels confident that he’ll triumph over Potter.

* * *

Thus starts the fierce Quidditch rivalry between the two Seekers. Every time, Potter races him to the Snitch, and it’s _thrilling._ Potter always wins by a hair’s breadth and when Draco lands on the ground, hot and windswept and _Snitchless,_ he pounds his fist into his hand and resolves to do better next time.

Every year, every match, every defeat burns in Draco’s stomach.

Until they stop playing, and Harry goes off to fight Voldemort.

* * *

Draco never forgets those matches, but there are admittedly worse things to worry about — namely, the madman attempting to conquer the world, and the defeat of said madman.

Potter is grimy, sooty, and bloody, but his emerald eyes seek out Draco’s first. Draco is standing in the corner with his parents, who are cowering in the face of disgrace. They hadn’t been open supporters of Voldemort, but Potter hadn’t forgotten the events of Malfoy Manor. Of Draco’s relatives torturing his best friend, and of the imprisonment.

Draco had refused to identify him, had bought him some time that had been useless and futile in the long run, but he hopes Potter hasn’t forgotten that either.

Potter doesn’t approach him, his eyes move away from Draco’s face, and despite the heavy feeling settling in his stomach, Draco knows it’s for the best. There’s too much history between them, too much to let go of, and the time to repent is not for now.

* * *

Over time, he and Potter learn to forgive each other — it takes a few years, a lot of apologies, and a drink or two, but Potter says those words that set Draco’s heart aflutter. “I forgive you.” 

“I forgive you too,” he tells Potter, and Potter smiles, and his heart flutters again. Wait, what?

* * *

The problem with forgiveness was that it rid Draco’s conscience of its burdens, and he was free to feel any way he wanted to about Potter. And of course, he went in the wrong direction. Or he skipped a step.

It takes longer for Weasley and Granger to forgive him — Granger forgives him first, and it takes a lot of prodding from Granger to get him to forgive Draco too. Weasley is incredulous and stubborn at first, muttering something about torture and slurs before Granger persuades him to let go of his childish grudge.

As for Potter — neither of them mentions the soulmate string. They’re still working on the friendship thing, but Draco’s heart stutters whenever he sees Potter and his stupidly messy mop of hair. That doesn’t seem like a friendship feeling.

One time, Potter approaches him with the offer of a Quidditch match. The way he asks it — tentatively, blushing — makes Draco melt and agree. 

  
  


Of course, he’s up against half the Weasley family, except for the swot (Percy?) and the dragon sibling (Charlie?). Even Arthur Weasley plays.

He and Harry are on opposing teams and Draco revels in the familiarity of competition. Of competing with Potter. They’re both Chasers, as this is a friendly match and there are no Snitches. Draco had dabbled in playing Chaser, but he’s certain Potter has never played Chaser before in his life, and his subpar, clumsy passing skills are put on display.

He’s awful at Chaser, and Draco is laughing, until he witnesses Potter attempt a barrel roll and is thrown sideways off his broom.

Heart thundering in his chest, Draco is the first to reach the ground, quickly dismounting his broom and hurrying to Potter’s side. He kneels next to Potter and runs his eyes over Potter’s body, his ears attuned to his feeble moans.

“What hurts?” he asks softly, leaning close to Potter’s mouth so he can hear better, and not trying to stare at his lips.

Potter’s lips part and he hisses, _“My ankle.”_ Sitting up, he lets out a groan.

Draco is aware of the Weasleys and Granger around him, but he waves them away — except for Mrs. Weasley, who he beckons. “His ankle,” he tells them. He pokes Potter’s left ankle, and it is met by a moan. “Broken, I’d wager.”

Frowning, Mrs. Weasley conjures a cast for his ankle. Draco helps him limp back to the Burrow, giving him a boost under his shoulder. Ron supports him from the other side, and for once, Ron’s concern outweighs his grudge against Draco. There’s no point in using a stretcher, as the Burrow isn’t far, so the three of them help Potter inside and deposit him on the ratty sofa.

* * *

Draco can’t sleep.

Potter couldn’t walk up the stairs, so they confine him to Draco’s old sleeping spot, the couch (Draco had slept there willingly), and sent Draco to sleep in Potter’s bed. Potter shares a room with Ron, who often is curled around Hermione. Mercifully, tonight Hermione goes to Ginny’s room to share with her, and Draco and Ron are left alone in a room. A risky venture, considering the two are inclined to strangle each other, but they seem to have an uneasy truce. For Potter’s sake. And perhaps…Ron is starting to warm up to him.

But Draco can’t sleep because the bed smells like Potter — the sheets, the pillow, the blanket — and sodding hell, it’s not supposed to smell as good as it does. Draco tosses and turns fitfully as Ron snores on, and finally, he slides out of bed and tiptoes down the stairs.

Potter is sound asleep on the couch, which the Weasleys had enlarged to fit his height, and his injured foot is propped up on the armrest. Mrs. Weasley had sedated him to ease the pain. His lashes flutter as he breathes in and out. Draco realizes he’s staring at Potter like an utter creep and quickly turns around, a warm flush crawling up his neck.

Merlin, this soulmate thing was too complicated. He’s not supposed to fancy the prat. For Merlin’s sake, they’re still Potter and Malfoy, the two rivals on the Quidditch pitch, and yet they’re not those boys anymore.

Unable to resist, he peeks at Potter again from over his shoulder and freezes. Potter is stirring, his hands groping around for something, and he mutters hazily, “Malfoy?”

Well, shit, Draco can’t escape now. He approaches Potter like how someone would approach a caged lion, and asks, “What do you need?”

Potter’s hands reach forward, grab his wrists and in one swift motion, tugs him on top of his body. Draco panics — how much medicine had Mrs. Weasley given him? — and tries to roll off of Potter, but Potter wraps his arms around Draco’s middle and pulls him flush against his body.

Draco squeaks, wriggling, but Potter doesn’t let him go, because he’s already fallen asleep — with his arms trapping Draco.

_Fuck._ How is he going to get out of this by morning? He can’t sleep like this, lying on Potter’s warm body and surrounded by the same scent that tortured him just a few minutes ago.

At this point, Draco would rather be accursed with boils than be in this compromising position.

* * *

Draco falls asleep anyway, because how can he not? Potter’s shoulder is comfortable.

He wakes to rain hammering the windows, and somehow, he and Potter had switched places during the night, and now Potter was — oh Merlin — _on top of_ him, and somehow, he’s _still_ asleep.

And four Weasleys and a Granger are staring at him. Ron, Ginny (who has a smirk on her face), George (who has a smirk on his face too), and the eldest, Bill. Hermione stands by Ron, a small smile on her face.

“Wait,” Ginny says loudly. “Remind me again why you aren’t dating? I mean, he’s already topped you.”

Draco splutters and George high-fives his sister. Ron’s face reddens and Bill looks conflicted. “All right,” he says calmly because he’s the only sane one in the room, “we need to move Harry. Unless…?” he eyes Draco, who frantically shakes his head. _Get me out of here!_

“Okay,” says Bill, “you lot, stop laughing. Help me move Harry.”

Two minutes later, and Draco is able to breathe again. Merlin’s balls, he can _think_ again. Potter’s proximity had done things to his brain.

Meanwhile, during all of this commotion, Potter wakes up. Then he lets out a shout of alarm as he realizes he’s on the floor. He sits up, his head swiveling as he tries to figure out what’s going on. His eyes land on Draco, sitting in his old place, and asks him quizzically, “What happened?”

That question dredges up an overwhelming set of fresh memories. Draco is an incoherent disaster, and the Weasleys are no better. Hermione has to explain the situation to Potter through a smile.

All in all, he hates this. Potter was a maniac.

* * *

As time goes on, it becomes harder and harder to call him _Potter._ Sometime along the way, there’s a noticeable shift from Potter to Harry, and from Malfoy to Draco. This is also noticed by everyone else, and the dating jokes increase.

“Are you sure you aren’t dating?” and “You’re not dating?” are popular questions, though they avoid asking Harry — only Draco because they know it irks him and they know how he feels about Harry.

Word spreads, but somehow it doesn’t get back to Harry — everyone is on tenterhooks whenever he and Draco are in the same room.

Two weeks after Harry’s accident, they dare to play Quidditch again. Harry watches from the sidelines again, though he had to be wrestled into the chair — he’d wanted to play, and everyone, especially Draco had refused to let him — _“You’re injured, you arsehole, now sit down and shut up.”_ — and he doesn’t miss the sly looks sent his way. Harry doesn’t notice anything, of course.

In the spur of the moment, he presses a kiss on Harry’s cheek. It’s a mistake. The Weasley boys, except Ron, let out hoots of glee, and both Harry and Draco blush.

Draco feels a faint tugging on his red string as he mounts his broom, but he ignores it.

* * *

When they kiss (on the lips) for the first time, they’re standing on the front lawn, with the Weasleys unabashedly watching from the windows. Even Molly, who disapproves of snooping, is caught up in the excitement.

“They’re watching us,” Draco says breathlessly as he gazes into Harry’s raw, bright eyes.

“Who cares?”

“Good point.”

Harry pulls him in for another kiss, and Draco swears he feels the red string warm and vibrate on his finger, but he doesn’t care anymore.

* * *

It’s almost poetic, their heartbeats halting together, but that’s how they’d always meant to end it. Their hearts are beating in tandem, and then it stops.

Draco wakes up in what looks like King’s Cross station, where the Hogwarts Express is pulling up. It’s all white and gold, the station is pure light, and when Draco looks down, he’s dressed in all white. Next to him, he hears someone sigh, and he turns his head to see Harry getting his feet, clad in white. Harry looks seventeen again and he gapes at Draco, who assumes he must look young too.

This was the height of their youth, he realizes, and the height of their lives. 

His hand seeks Harry’s as they look around.

Harry gasps and points. Draco follows his line of vision and sees two people approaching — one who looks like a duplicate of Harry, only his eyes are hazel, not green, and his nose is slightly different. The woman walking next to him has dark red and green eyes the same hue as Harry’s.

“Harry,” the man says lovingly, reaching for Harry, and with a broken sob, Harry falls into his arms. The woman wraps her arms around him from the back, and Draco has a lump in his throat as he witnesses the reunion.

The three of them hug for a long moment until the woman lets go, and Harry parts from them both. His eyes are wide with disbelief.

“Mum?” he breathes. “Dad?”

James Potter grins at his son. “I missed you.” The woman, who could only be Lily Potter and Harry’s mother, cups his face.

“Oh sweetheart,” she whispered. “We’re so proud of you. We’ve watched over you since we died. We watched you grow and fight and fall in love and — 

At the mention of _fall in love,_ all three Potters turn at once to look at Draco. Tears are glittering in Lily’s eyes and she throws her arms around Draco. Draco feels stunned at first, and then he tentatively hugs her back. James and Harry follow, and they collapse on the floor, a tangled mess of sobs and intertwined limbs. 

Draco wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
